


The Queen's Favorite

by Minutia_R



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, References to Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minutia_R/pseuds/Minutia_R
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The curve of her back is graceful even as she stoops, the arrow of skin at the base of her neck that is exposed when she lowers her head is whiter than fine linen.  It pleases me to see her like this; it is not enough, but I dare not do more.  Against her breast, as protection from the dangers of the road, the princess wears a folded handkerchief, and on that handkerchief are three drops of blood.</i>
</p>
<p>The princess and her servant on the road, from Grimm's "The Goose Girl."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen's Favorite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imaginary_golux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Golux!

The road is hot and dusty, and two girls ride along it. One is fair and happy, mounted on a golden horse and dressed in all the splendid silks and colors of a royal bride. The other is me. My horse is a heavy-footed, strong-backed plodder, piled with packages of golden cups and plates, snowy linens thinner than a spider's web, jewels and gems set in fine filigree work. I sit among them, another ornament to my princess' trousseau. She is fair and I am dark, but I am beautiful too: I know it, my queen used to tell me so.

"Oh! I am thirsty," says my princess. "Dismount and fetch me a drink from that stream in the golden cup you carry."

"Dismount yourself," I answer, "and stoop to drink, for I will not be your maid."

Pale pink color rises to her white cheeks; she lifts her head, and rides on, pretending not to hear, though the sun blazes fierce overhead, and it must be unbearable under her layers of stiff embroidery. Proud princess! But I am proud too: all the maids back home used to say so. "Too fine to spin, that one! She will not lift her hand to weave or sew." And why should I? I was the queen's favorite.

"Oh! I am thirsty," is my princess' complaint again, not an hour later. Does she think I have forgotten my little moment of pique, and will submit meekly to her now? "Dismount and fetch me a drink from that stream in the golden cup you carry."

"Dismount yourself, and stoop to drink," I say. "I will not be your maid."

And she pulls up her splendid golden horse, and gathers up her awkward silken skirts, dismounts and bends low over the stream. Oh, she is lovely as the morning; her hair, caught up in its net of pearls, glows like the sunrise. The curve of her back is graceful even as she stoops, the arrow of skin at the base of her neck that is exposed when she lowers her head is whiter than fine linen. It pleases me to see her like this; it is not enough, but I dare not do more. Against her breast, as protection from the dangers of the road, the princess wears a folded handkerchief, and on that handkerchief are three drops of blood. The blood speaks to her now, in a voice that mingles with the rushing of the stream.

"Ah! If your mother knew of this, her heart would break!"

That voice is as familiar to me as my own heartbeat; it frightens me, even as I long for it. But I have left my queen far behind me. She has sent me away, and I will not see her again.

"Oh! I am thirsty," says the princess. Her voice falters, then plunges on. "Will you . . . please . . . dismount and fetch me a drink?"

I keep riding, and do not bother to answer. Really, she learns so slowly, she must be quite stupid. But I am clever: my queen used to tell me so. "Such clever fingers you have, my pretty girl, and such a clever little mouth." And her voice would trail off into murmurs and wordless moans. I learned my place quickly enough, and what I must do to keep it.

The princess reins up her horse again, and crouches by the stream, and then—perhaps it is carelessness, or a trick of the wind—the handkerchief falls from her bodice, and is carried away on the water. Quicker than lightning, I am off of my horse, and when she climbs back up the bank to remount, I am holding the golden horse's reins in my hand.

"Oh, no," I say. "The golden horse is mine; you must ride with the luggage."

She steps backwards from me, and puts her hand to her breast, but there is nothing there. Oh, she is lovely; her eyes grow wide and her slim hands tremble, and her pulse flutters quick and blue in her throat. She has lost her mother's protection, just as I have; it is only the two of us now, and she fears me. Good. But it is not enough.

She bows her head and gathers up her silken skirts, starting up the road towards where the pack horse stands browsing, but I step in her path.

"Oh, no," I say. "Those fine bridal clothes are mine; you must take them off, or you will dirty them."

"I . . . I will not," she says.

Unyielding girl! But I am unyielding too: all the servants back home used to say so. "Too proud for a tumble, that one! She will not give any of us a kiss or even a glance." For I was the queen's favorite, and yielded to no one but her; now that she has cast me off, I will be no one's maid.

I draw a knife from my sleeve. She had her protection against the dangers of the road, and I have mine, and I am not careless. "Take them off," I say.

With fumbling hands, she lets the bridal clothes fall one by one onto the dust of the road. Her golden hair tumbles loose from the net of pearls, and her small white breasts from the jeweled bodice; with a rustle of colored silks and a whisper of fine linen her belly and slim legs are laid bare. Oh, she is lovely, naked and cowering; she tries to cover the golden fur of her sex with her hands, but I step in close, and draw aside her two hands with my left one, while my steel kisses the fluttering pulse in her throat.

"And now," I say, "tell me why I should not kill you."

"Oh, do not!" The words pour forth from her like a babbling stream. "The horse is yours, and the clothes are yours, and the prince will be yours too, when we arrive; everything here is yours. I swear by the open sky that I will tell no one what you have done, only do not kill me!"

"Well spoken," I whisper against her ear. I return my knife to my sleeve, and trail my hand down her throat instead; I can feel her heart beating wildly beneath her breast as I roll one small nipple between my fingers. "You will see how pleasant things can be, now that we understand one another."

"Oh," she whimpers, "do not . . . ." But she makes no resistance as I bear her down onto the dust of the road, and stays quaveringly still as my teeth leave their marks along the curve of her breast, red as drops of blood on fine linen. I think she will not be so slow, after all, to learn what her place is, and what she must do to keep it. And I will never send her away: my pretty girl, my ornament, my favorite.

"Ah, princess," I say, low and exulting, against her belly. "If your mother knew of this, her heart would break."


End file.
